Chapter Text
Who doesn't like a fresh start? A place where you can begin anew and build a life different from your past. Having learned from your own mistakes, you can take your best instincts and do a better job this time. It can be the start of something special.
If only the start of this new thing wouldn't be so damn blazing hot.
The sun beat down on the landscape like a hammer trying to beat metal into shape, relentless and unforgiving. The land itself was a dry, rocky expanse that stretched endlessly in every direction. Sand clung to everything it touched, sticky and invasive, while the classic tumbleweeds rolled across the road at every opportunity, as if mocking your journey.
You rode in a carriage, the white cloth canopy above doing just barely enough to keep the sun's rays at bay. Even so, sweat trickled down your back, and your clothes stuck uncomfortably to your dough. Your partner of all life and death pulled on the reins, letting out a snort that said the heat was bothering him, too.
Your good ol' buddy - a horse you'd managed to acquire at a frankly insultingly low price back east - was named Razzles. A name you'd given him yourself, naturally, courtesy of his distinctive raspberry-colored coat. A very good horse. The best, if you had anything to say about it. Loyal, strong, and with just enough personality to keep things interesting.
Or at least, that's what you told yourself when you were still back in the city, full of optimism and naive dreams. Now that you were out here in the wilds of the frontier, things felt a little less hopeful. The only thing keeping your spirits up was the idea of the big, fat reward waiting for you at the end of this sweltering journey.
You were on your way toward the Pilgrim's Path, a road that cut through the badlands and into the heart of the desert. It served as the main artery between the east and the west, and the road where you hoped to set up shop.
The reason being simple: Pilgrim's Path had a reputation. The place was known for being full of bandits, sketchy merchants, and travelers who were just desperate enough to take any risk. Lawmen were scarce, law itself even scarcer. It was the perfect place for someone with an entrepreneurial spirit - and perhaps a touch of recklessness - to try and make a living.
You knew your craft, and what better business to open in a blazing hot, lawless, and generally uncivilized area than a tavern? You knew how to serve, and more importantly, you knew how to cook. Your mother had made sure of that, drilling recipes and techniques into you from a young age. So a place where there were plenty of customers and even more demand sounded like the perfect opportunity.
The sun had barely peaked in the sky by the time your caravan made it to Pilgrim's Path, and even then, the place looked like a ghost town. Your carriage and two carts - one holding your equipment, the other your ingredients and supplies - were the only vehicles on the road.
The wooden buildings were dusty and weathered, their paint long since stripped away by sandstorms. Some were even missing a board or two, gaps in their walls like missing teeth. It looked like the whole town had been built and abandoned in the same week. You couldn't blame anyone who would leave; the place had an air of desolation that would make even the most optimistic soul think twice.
As far as you could tell, the town was populated mostly by drifters - travelers searching the world for their own ideals. Vanillian Pilgrims made up most of the townsfolk, or so you'd heard. Good people from that Vanilla Kingdom you'd heard so much about. Devout, hardworking, and generally pleasant. At least, that's what the rumors said.
But you could look around later. For now, you needed to find a place to park your belongings. Soon enough, you reached the town's center - the Pilgrim Village, a small, almost quaint area that served as the heart of this dusty settlement.
Of course, you were getting stares from the locals. A stranger, a horse, two wagons, and a carriage would stand out even in a large city. Here, in this quiet desert outpost, you might as well have arrived with a brass band. The people of Pilgrim Village seemed more curious than concerned, though. They could tell you were a new face, but they didn't seem particularly worried about it.
After a bit of searching, you found the perfect spot - right in the center of town, a nice, wide space. The shade of a nearby building would give both you and Razzles some much-needed relief from the oppressive heat.
And what do you know? The building you'd parked next to just happened to be adorned with a "For Sale" sign, weathered but legible. Well, that sure did save you a lot of time.
"Ah, a new arrival. I am glad to see we are getting some fresh faces."
A voice snapped you out of your thoughts. You turned to see a short, white-bearded old man approaching with a gentle smile. He wore simple robes that marked him as one of the Vanillian Pilgrims, and despite the heat, he seemed completely at ease.
"Sorry for the intrusion," he said kindly. "You looked like you were going to settle down here. I couldn't help but notice."
"No intrusion at all," you replied, returning his smile.
"I'm the Pilgrim Village Elder, the leader of this place. Welcome to our little village." He extended a weathered hand, and you shook it firmly.
"Well, thank you. I'm glad to be here."
"What brings you to our corner of the world, stranger? And what should I call you?"
You hesitated for just a moment. Old habits. "Y/N Cookie," you said simply. "Just Y/N is fine."
The elder nodded, not pressing further. "And that's a lovely horse you have there. Does he have a name?"
"His name is Razzles. He's been with me through thick and thin." You stroked the horse's mane affectionately, and Razzles nuzzled into your hand with a soft whinny.
"My, that's a fine horse indeed." The elder's attention shifted to the wagons behind you, taking in the carefully packed supplies and equipment. "You certainly came prepared."
"I certainly hope so, sir." You gestured toward the sign on the building. "Say, is this building still available?"
"It is. Do you have plans for it?" The elder asked, though there was a knowing glint in his eye that suggested he already had an idea.
"Yes, I do." You grinned. "I came here for a nice, new start. And by the looks of it, this town could use a little more... flavor. No offense."
"None taken!" The village elder chuckled warmly. "So, you're going to open a shop, are you? That sounds like a wonderful idea. We could certainly use more services here."
"How much for the property, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Hmm, well, the building is pretty sturdy, and it's in the best location in town." The elder paused, taking a quick glance at the wagon behind you. "But I suppose the right buyer could afford it."
"How much are we talking?"
"I believe... 5,000 crystals."
You did a double take, eyes widening. "Five thousand crystals?! Isn't that a little high, sir?"
"Well, that's what you need to open a proper establishment, isn't it? Prime location, solid structure, and I've been looking to sell that place for quite a while now." The village elder's expression remained pleasant but firm.
You bit your lip, running the numbers in your head. It was steep, but you'd come prepared. This was supposed to be an investment, after all.
"Alright, alright, you have a deal." You walked to the back of the wagon and rummaged through your carefully organized inventory. Your fingers found the heavy leather bag of crystals - your entire savings, the culmination of years of work back east.
You grabbed it with both hands, grunting at the weight, and dragged it along the dirt road. You stopped in front of the elder, dropping the bag at his feet with a heavy thud that kicked up a small cloud of dust.
"There," you said, panting slightly. "I hope this will do?"
The village elder gave a hearty chuckle as he crouched down to inspect the bag. "Oh yes, I think this will do just fine. Consider the building yours!"
He handed you a set of iron keys, worn smooth with age, and with that simple exchange, the deed was done.
"Thank you, sir. I'll get started on setting up, then." You wiped your forehead with the back of your sleeve, already feeling the weight of the work ahead.
"Good luck. The building is mostly intact, but it will still need some work before it's fully functional. There are some workers in town who ought to be able to help for a few coin, if you need it."
"I appreciate the heads up."
The elder tipped his head in farewell and shuffled off, leaving you alone with your new property. You turned to survey your purchase, a mixture of excitement and trepidation bubbling in your chest.
Well. No turning back now.
You got to work immediately, first leading Razzles to the small stable you'd spotted behind the building. The structure was weathered but sound, with enough room for your faithful companion and a decent supply of hay and feed.
"You've earned a rest, boy," you murmured, filling his trough with fresh water and oats. Razzles whinnied appreciatively and immediately set to eating.
Then came the real work: unloading your equipment and supplies. It took the better part of an hour to haul everything inside - cooking equipment, dishware, tables, chairs, linens, preserved ingredients, bottles of various liquors, and all the small necessities that would turn this empty building into a functioning tavern.
Once everything was inside, you could finally assess what you were working with.
The interior was... rough, but not hopeless. Dust coated every surface, and the air was stale from disuse. The floor was oak hardwood, scuffed and scratched but fundamentally sound. The bar ran along one wall, a sturdy piece of craftsmanship that just needed a good cleaning. Behind it, empty shelves waited to be stocked.
Tables and chairs - your own, thankfully - were scattered about, waiting to be arranged. The kitchen in the back had a large iron stove, countertops, and cabinets that had seen better days but were still functional.
First things first: you needed to patch up the holes in the roof and walls. Nothing major, and you didn't expect rain anytime soon in this arid climate, but a sturdy roof and solid walls were non-negotiable.
You spent the next several hours in a blur of activity. You swept, scrubbed, hammered, and polished until your arms ached and sweat poured down your face. The holes in the walls were patched with spare wood. The countertops were wiped clean. The shelves were dusted and ready for stock.
The kitchen appliances were cleaned until they gleamed, the pots and pans organized, and the small icebox stocked with perishables. You even tackled the bathroom, scrubbing it from top to bottom until the fixtures shone.
It was hard, hot work. Your clothes were soaked with sweat, and your muscles screamed in protest. But slowly, steadily, the building transformed. What had been a dusty, abandoned shell began to look like a real establishment.
When you finally stepped back to survey your work, you couldn't help but smile. The place was shining. The floor gleamed, the bar was spotless, and everything was in its proper place.
You arranged the tables and chairs throughout the main room, creating an inviting atmosphere. The bar was stocked with bottles of whiskey, rum, and various other spirits. Dishes, cups, and silverware were organized and ready. The kitchen was prepared for cooking, with ingredients sorted and easily accessible.
It was starting to look like a real tavern.
As you were doing one final check, you noticed something you'd missed before: a trapdoor in the ceiling above the bar. Probably just an attic, you figured, but curiosity got the better of you.
You climbed up onto the bar, tugged on the latch, and pulled open the door to reveal a narrow staircase. The steps creaked ominously under your weight as you ascended into the darkness above.
What you found surprised you - a surprisingly spacious room tucked into the peaked roof of the building. It was dusty and dim, lit only by the fading sunlight that filtered through cracks in the walls, but it was... livable.
In one corner sat a bed frame with a half-decent mattress. Against another wall stood an old wooden desk and chair. A small closet contained a few spare clothes - worn but wearable work shirts and pants. And wonder of wonders, there was even a tiny bathroom with a sink, toilet, and a small bathtub.
"Well, would you look at that," you said aloud, your voice echoing in the empty space.
You tested the mattress - dusty but surprisingly comfortable. You gave it a good shake to knock off the dust, then examined the rest of the space. The desk was simple but functional. The clothes in the closet were a bit stiff but would work fine for daily wear.
You turned the knob on the bathtub, and after a moment of groaning pipes, water came pouring out. It ran brown for a few seconds before clearing. The tub wasn't huge, but it would fit you.
Perfect. You wouldn't have to find separate lodging. You'd be living right above your business, always close at hand if needed.
With your living situation sorted, you headed back downstairs to prepare for opening. You had the furniture, the dishes, the ingredients, and the drinks. All you needed now were customers.
But first, you needed a name.
You stepped outside, both to check on Razzles and to clear your head. The sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. You fed your horse, gave him fresh water, and brushed his coat while you brainstormed.
"What do you think, buddy?" you asked. "What should we call this place?"
Razzles whinnied and continued eating, unhelpful as always.
"Yeah, you're right. We're in a desert. We should name it something that fits the environment." You continued brushing his mane, letting your mind wander.
The Pilgrim's Path. The badlands. The endless, scorching desert. But inside your tavern, there would be food, drink, shade, and comfort. A refuge from the harshness outside.
"How about... The Oasis?" you asked.
Razzles turned his head toward you, ears perking up.
"You like it? I know it's a bit on the nose, but that's kind of the point. The whole desert theme, you know? Plus, it sounds... welcoming. Inviting." You patted his neck. "The Oasis Tavern. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"
Razzles let out a neigh that you chose to interpret as agreement.
"Alright, then. The Oasis Tavern it is!"
You didn't have a fancy sign or professional lettering, but you made do with what you had. Using a spare plank of wood and a knife, you carved the name carefully: THE OASIS TAVERN. It was simple and rustic, but you felt a surge of pride looking at your handiwork.
You mounted the sign above the door and stepped back to admire it. There it was. Your establishment. Your fresh start.
The sun was setting, and it was time to open for business.
You flipped the sign in the window from "Closed" to "Open," lit the lamps inside, and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
The evening wore on, and the tavern remained empty. Not a single customer. You tried not to feel discouraged - it was the first day, after all, and word probably hadn't spread yet - but anxiety gnawed at you.
You couldn't afford to wait for word of mouth alone. You needed to make a splash, grab attention, get people talking.
Then you remembered something your mother used to say when you were little: "You can attract people by having something special, something that catches their attention. And if you really want to hook them? Give them a taste. Let them experience what you have to offer, and if it's good enough, they'll come back on their own."
A slow smile spread across your face. You looked toward the kitchen, toward the fully stocked ingredients and the gleaming stove.
"I've got an idea."
What's the best way to get someone hooked on something? Let them have a little taste, just enough to leave them wanting more. And you were a damn good cook. Your mother had made sure of that, drilling her recipes into you until you could make them in your sleep.
You grabbed your mother's old recipe book - leather-bound and worn, filled with her handwritten notes and sketches - and flipped through the pages.
You needed something good, but not so elaborate that it would be impossible to recreate regularly. Something hearty and satisfying that would appeal to travelers and workers. Something with an aroma that would carry.
"Ah, here we go!" you said, finding the perfect recipe. A good, old-fashioned stew. Not too complex, not too demanding in terms of ingredients, but absolutely delicious when done right.
You got to work with practiced efficiency. You pulled out your largest pot, filled it with water, and set it over the stovetop. You chopped vegetables with quick, precise cuts - onions, carrots, potatoes, celery. You seasoned the meat generously and seared it until it was perfectly browned.
A handful of rice went into the pot, along with herbs and spices from your carefully curated collection. You got a fire going in the stove, and before long, the stew was bubbling away.
You tasted it with a ladle, and your eyes widened. "Just like mom used to make," you said to yourself, grinning.
But you didn't stop there. While the stew simmered, you prepared additional dishes - sandwiches, fresh salads, pasta with a simple but flavorful sauce, and even a few pies for dessert. You wanted to show the full range of what your kitchen could produce.
By the time you finished, the kitchen was filled with food, and the mingled aromas were absolutely intoxicating. The savory scent of the stew was strongest, but the sweet smell of baking pies added a perfect counterpoint.
The scent began to drift out through the windows and open door, carried on the evening breeze.
It didn't take long.
A couple of curious townsfolk poked their heads around the doorframe, sniffing the air with evident interest.
"Something smells incredible!" one of them said, eyes lighting up.
"Is that place actually open?" another asked, peering inside.
"I don't know, but I'm going to find out." The first one knocked on the doorframe. "Hello? Anyone here?"
You appeared from the kitchen with your most welcoming smile. "Well, hello there! Can I help you with something?"
"Hi, um... can we come in? We smelled something amazing, and, well..." The second visitor trailed off, looking embarrassed.
You made a show of looking thoughtful. "Hmm, I don't know. I mean, I'd love the company, but I'm not sure I have enough guests for all of... this!" You gestured broadly toward the kitchen, where dishes upon dishes of food were visible.
Their mouths fell open.
"And it's free, too," you added casually. "For today only, of course. Grand opening special."
"FREE?!" they exclaimed in unison.
"That's right. Free." You let out an exaggerated sigh. "I'm just worried it'll all go to waste if nobody's around to eat it. It would be such a shame..."
The two visitors looked at each other for only a moment before rushing back into town.
Within minutes, a crowd had gathered outside your door - Cookies of all descriptions, drawn by the promise of free food and the incredible aromas wafting from your kitchen.
"Come on, let us in!"
"I'm starving!"
"Free food! Did you hear that?!"
You had to suppress a grin as you watched them crowd around. "Thanks, Mom," you whispered to yourself.
You opened the door wide and gestured them inside with a theatrical flourish. "Hello, everyone, and welcome to The Oasis!"
The crowd flooded in, filling the tables and chairs, chattering excitedly among themselves.
"We have sandwiches, salads, pasta, and pies," you announced over the noise. "And, of course, my secret family recipe - a hearty stew that'll warm you right up! Now, don't go crazy, but help yourselves. I'll be around with drinks shortly!"
The Cookies needed no further encouragement. They dug in enthusiastically, and soon the tavern was filled with the sounds of satisfied eating and happy conversation.
You worked tirelessly, moving between the kitchen and the floor, refilling plates, serving drinks, and making sure everyone was taken care of. It was hectic - more hectic than you'd anticipated - but you managed.
When you judged the moment was right, you called for attention.
"Folks! Folks, can I have your attention for just a moment?" The chatter died down, and all eyes turned to you. "I hope you're all enjoying the food!"
A chorus of enthusiastic agreement rose up.
"Well, I'm glad to hear it! But I have to tell you - that stew you've been eating? That's just a small taste of what The Oasis has to offer. For a few coins, you can get the full experience - larger portions, specialty dishes, premium drinks - and I guarantee you won't regret it."
You could see the calculation happening in their eyes. The free food had been good - very good. If the paid offerings were even better...
Curiosity, as they say, killed the cat. But in this case, it filled your coin purse.
Orders started coming in - paying orders. Cookies wanted seconds, wanted to try the other dishes, wanted the stronger drinks. You went back and forth between the kitchen and the floor, taking orders, preparing food, serving drinks, and keeping everything running as smoothly as possible.
It was exhausting work, especially for one person, but it was also exhilarating. The tavern was alive with energy, filled with satisfied customers who were already talking about coming back tomorrow.
As the evening wore on and the crowd gradually thinned, you allowed yourself to feel a swell of pride. Your plan had worked. The Oasis was officially in business.
The last few stragglers nursed their drinks and chatted quietly as you began the process of cleaning up. When the final customer left with a wave and a promise to return, you slumped into a chair and let out a long, exhausted sigh.
Every muscle in your body ached. Your feet were sore, your back was tight, and you were fairly certain you'd never been this tired in your entire life.
But you'd done it.
You looked around the now-empty tavern - at the clean tables, the organized bar, the kitchen that had performed admirably under pressure - and smiled.
"Grand opening: successful," you said to yourself.
A glance at the clock told you it was well past time to close up. You did a final sweep of the tavern, making sure everything was in order. Tables wiped, chairs pushed in, floor clean. Then you headed out back to check on Razzles.
Your horse was contentedly munching on hay, seemingly unbothered by the excitement of the day.
"Well, buddy, we did it," you said, refilling his water trough. "The Oasis is officially open for business." You gave him an affectionate pat on the neck. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow's another day."
Razzles whinnied softly in response.
You headed back inside, locked the door, flipped the sign to "Closed," and extinguished most of the lamps. The tavern settled into peaceful darkness, and you allowed yourself to feel the full weight of your exhaustion.
You climbed the stairs to your new living quarters, every step an effort. A bath was definitely in order - the water felt like absolute heaven after the day you'd had. You slipped into clean, comfortable clothes and practically collapsed onto the mattress.
Your eyes were already closing as your head hit the pillow.
This was definitely a day to remember. And tomorrow? Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new customers, new opportunities.
But that was tomorrow's problem.
For now, you let yourself drift into a deep, well-earned sleep, completely unaware of what awaited you in the days to come.
CRASH!
...And unaware of what awaited you tonight, apparently. The sound of your door being kicked open jolted you from the edge of sleep. Your eyes snapped open, heart racing, as you tried to make sense of what was happening.
Right. The sign. You'd forgotten to-
"Hey! We're closed!" you called down the stairs, trying to sound more annoyed than alarmed.
"Are ya? Well, ain't that a shame."
The voice was feminine, drawling, and carried a distinct western twang. You hauled yourself out of bed, every muscle protesting, and made your way to the top of the stairs to look down.
A Cookie stood in your doorway, silhouetted against the moonlight. As she stepped inside, you could make out more details: golden hair parted down the middle and pulled back in a ponytail, with certain strands intricately braided. Her eyes were a striking olive-green, and her dough was a rich, golden brown. She wore a wide-brimmed hat and clothing that marked her as a traveler - or something more dangerous.
Then you saw the firearms. Two of them, one in each hand, gleaming dully in the lamplight.
And one of them was pointed directly at you.
"Listen here, partner." She raised the weapon slightly, a smug smile playing at her lips. "You know what this is? A gen-u-ine wholegrain-caliber. Real nice piece of hardware."
"Woah, woah, woah!" You raised your hands immediately, heart hammering in your chest. "Put that thing away!"
"Nah, I don't think I will." She tilted her head, still smiling. "Unless you're willin' to keep this place open for a lil' longer. Just for me."
Your mind raced. You were exhausted, you were unarmed, and you were distinctly not interested in getting shot on your first day of business.
"I can do that," you said carefully. "Just... put the guns away. Please."
"Sure, sure." She lowered the weapons, though she didn't holster them. "As long as you do as I say, everything will be peachy. Now, you gonna keep your end of the deal or not?"
"Of course." You sighed and carefully made your way down the stairs, very aware of her eyes tracking your every movement. This was not how you'd planned to end your first day.
The Cookie sauntered over to a table and plopped herself down, legs crossed casually, weapons resting on the table within easy reach. She looked around with an appraising eye.
"Ya know, when I heard about this place, I wasn't expectin' much. But this place ain't half bad. Real nice setup you got here."
"Thanks... I guess." You tried to keep your voice steady. "What can I serve you?"
"Somethin' strong. I'm feelin' like havin' a good drink. Got any whiskey?"
"About a bottle left."
"Perfect." She watched as you retrieved it from behind the bar. When you approached with a glass, she took the entire bottle from your hands. Before you could protest, she uncorked it and took a long drink straight from the bottle.
"I... meant to pour you a glass, miss."
"Oh, don't worry, I can handle it. I ain't a softie." She took another swig and let out a satisfied sigh. "Name's Rye Cookie, by the way. Rye, to my friends. You can call me Rye since you're bein' so accommodatin'."
"...Y/N Cookie," you replied after a moment's hesitation.
"So," her tone was teasing, "you gonna ask me why I pointed a gun at ya, or are you just gonna stand there starin'?"
"I was getting to that. Why did you point a gun at me?"
"What? Can't a Cookie do a little intimidation for a good drink?" Rye laughed, clearly enjoying herself.
"Not when the Cookie has two guns and a bad attitude. That's a bit excessive, don't you think?"
"Ah, you'll be fine. If I was really gonna hurt ya, I would have already. I just wanted to make sure you'd open up. Can't blame a gal for bein' persuasive, can ya?"
You sat down across from her, partly because your legs were tired and partly because you wanted to keep her in clear view. "So what brings you to Pilgrim's Path? Besides terrorizing new business owners, I mean."
Rye grinned and reached up to tap the sheriff's badge clipped to her hat. "Bounty hunter. The law. Whatever ya wanna call me. Anyone with sticky hands or a bounty on their head, I'm comin' for 'em. It's a livin'."
That explained the confidence, the weapons, and the casual attitude toward intimidation. "So you chase criminals for a living. That explains the heavy drinking."
"So now you're perceptive, huh?" Rye raised an eyebrow, though she seemed more amused than offended. "Yeah, well, when you spend your days dealin' with the worst folks the frontier has to offer, you need somethin' to take the edge off."
"Fair enough. Must be dangerous work."
"Dangerous, but rewardin'. And I'm damn good at it." She took another drink. "Speakin' of which, I ain't got much time to sit around and chat. I'm a busy Cookie. Ya never know when a criminal is gonna strike, or when I'll get word of a new bounty."
"Right, of course. Good luck with... all that."
"Don't need luck." Rye flashed a confident grin. "I got skill. And instinct. And these." She patted her firearms affectionately.
"And a big ego," you muttered under your breath.
"What was that?" Her tone sharpened, and her hand drifted toward one of the guns.
"Nothing," you said quickly, maintaining an innocent expression.
"I thought so." She stood abruptly, leaving a few coins on the table - more than enough to cover the whiskey, you noted - and headed for the door. "I'll be seein' ya 'round, softie."
"It's..." you called after her, but she'd already disappeared into the night.
You stared at the door for a long moment, processing what had just happened. Then you let out a long, exhausted sigh.
That was definitely an interesting way to end the day. You dragged yourself to the door, locked it properly this time, and made absolutely certain the "Closed" sign was visible.
Then you trudged back upstairs, suddenly too tired to even consider bathing again. You collapsed onto the mattress fully clothed and let your eyes drift shut.
Tomorrow. You'd deal with everything tomorrow.
For now, sleep claimed you completely, pulling you down into darkness.
And in that darkness, something stirred.
Something that had been waiting.
Something that woke up when you fell asleep.
But you knew nothing about that.
Not yet.